                          KALEIDOSCOPE
  
          A Past Adventure at the Place Known as Kent's  
  
     I saw the place out of the corner of my eye, which was kind
of amazing since there was nothing about it that would attract  
anyone's attention, except maybe that it was really nondescript.
I might not have been in too many "descript" places, whatever the
hell they were, but I had seen more than a few nondescript joints.
I slowed down for a better look. This place had them all beat.  
There was nothing more dreary on a dreary Monday night than a  
dreary-looking, lonesome roadside bar. It was set back off the road
with a deserted, gravel parking lot in front. A loudly buzzing neon
sign hung in the dusty window. I could hear it buzz fifty feet  
away, even with my car radio playing one of those sound-alike,  
sorrowful country western ballads.  
     K-E-N-T-S  P-L-A-C-E, it read, W-E-L-C-O-M-E  T-O  T-H-E   
L-A-S-T  S-T-O-P. Just that, nothing else. No indication if it was
a bar, massage parlor, TV repair shop, or what. If I hadn't been
so damn depressed from all the doors slammed in my face that day,
I might have kept driving right by without giving it a second  
thought.   
     I'll level with you. I don't really enjoy trying to sell  
door-to-door, but it keeps me fed, with enough left over for a few
drinks and the postage stamps for all those self-addressed  
envelopes that add to my growing collection of rejection slips. 
I had been mulling over the plot of a new novel while I was  
driving, something I try to do when I don't have to concentrate on
highway traffic. The story was going to be about an ex-major league
ball player who blows out his pitching arm, returns to his home 
town a has-been, turns to booze, then falls in love with the town
trollop who sets him on the straight and narrow. He goes to  
veterinary school and finds a cure for hoof and mouth disease. I
hadn't figured out a smash ending yet, but I was working on it. 
The sight of the roadside tavern gave me the idea I might be able
to pick up some interesting local color for my book.   
     Anyway, what finally convinced me to stop at the place was 
the sight of a man and a woman walking into the place and the quick
glimpse of the bar I saw through the opened door. Where those  
people came from, I don't know, because there wasn't a car in the
lot and I hadn't seen them walking on the shoulder of the road. The
woman had that certain wiggle in her butt when she walked that gets
other women whispering and men fantasizing. I had to see what that
woman had up front to go with her walk, and a cold beer was as good
an excuse as any.  
     It was a dreary inside too. Dark, with a stale, musty sort of
odor that wasn't quite beery. More like, like.... what? What was
that smell? Sweat, that was it. Not the honest sweat of a men's 
locker room, but the stale sweat of too many people on too many 
Saturday nights wearing too much cheap cologne. Nah... cologne was
too fancy. It had to be Jean Nate', mixed with a touch of Old Spice
and some Aqua Velva.  
     The man and woman were seated at the bar, their backs to me.
I still couldn't see her face, but I liked the way she clasped the
legs of the bar stool when she crossed her ankles behind it. I  
walked to the last in a row of empty booths and slid in so I could
face the front door. I hoped this put me close enough to the bar
to listen in on their conversation without being too obvious about
it.  
     No one even acknowledged my presence. I was about to call out
for some service when the bartender glanced over, grabbed a bar 
towel and headed my way.  
     He was a classic. His nose looked like it had been broken  
about three times in as many places. He wore a white dress shirt,
with a red ribbon garter around each sleeve at biceps level. His
bow tie was 100% black plastic and the toothpick he moved from side
to side in his mouth was 100% wood. He made a few half-hearted  
swipes at the sticky table-top with a bar towel that wasn't much
cleaner than the apron around his pot belly.  
     "What'll it be," he growled.  
     "Bottle of Bud or Miller Lite," I said.  
     "Don't have 'em."  
     "Well," I asked, "What kind of beer do you have?"  
     "We don't serve beer after 1 PM 'cept on Saturday nights." 
     "Coke then, or Pepsi."  
     "This is a bar, fella, not a malt shoppe. Only booze here  
tonight."  
     He pronounced "shoppe" as if it were spelled "shop-pay."  
     "Seven and Seven, easy on the ice."  
     "Don't carry it."  
     "Jack Dan..."  
     "Nope."  
     "Southern ...."  
     "Unh unh."  
     "Well what do you have?"  
     "Staggering Highlander. You can have it neat, which I don't
recommend since it's your first time here, or with some water or
ice."  
     He paused, looked me over a bit, and then said, "In your case,
it ought to be water AND ice."  
     "Ok, fine."  
     While the bartender was taking my order, a couple more guys
had come in and taken seats at the bar, close to my end.  
     The guy nearest me nodded toward the couple and said,  
"Evening, Allison. Bill. Thus the whirligig of time brings in his
revenges."  
     The guy who had originally came in with the woman, the one 
called Bill, I figured, lifted up his glass in a toast, and  
warbled, "East Side, West Side, all around the town."  
     The woman called Allison finally turned her head in my  
direction so I could get a look at her face. I wasn't disappointed,
but she hardly looked like someone who should wiggle her ass like
she did.  
     "Headly. Eric. I hope you both wrote your letters of support
to Mrs. Gore like you promised."  
     "Ars gratia gratis," I always say," the fellow next to Bill
replied.  
     "Oh, Headly. You don't realize how fast this country is going
to the dogs," Miss Wiggle butt said vehemently. "We absolutely  
mu......"  
     She was interrupted by the guy nearest me. By process of  
elimination, his name had to be Eric.  
     "Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim,  
      Hound or spaniel, brach or lym;  
      Or bobtail tike, or trundle-tail;  
      Tom will make them weep and wail."  
     "Give my regards to Broadway. Remember me to Herald Square,"
Bill yodeled.  
     I was having a tough time following this conversation. Instead
of local color, it looked like I was in the middle of a  
kaleidoscope of insanities.  
     The bartender put my drink down in front of me and without a
moment's hesitation, I downed it in two quick gulps.  
     "Gimme another one," I ordered.  
     "You sure?"  
     "Yes, dammit. Again."  
     I saw the door pushed open and another guy came in. He had a
purple cloak or mantle of some sort around his shoulders and was
carrying what looked to me to be a fasces.  He marched to the bar
and took a chunk of the wood out with a swing of the axe-like  
projection of the fasces.  
     "A large one, if you please, my good man," he ordered in a 
commanding voice.  
     "Sure, Boss. Right away." The bartender's voice quavered. "But
don't you think you've had a few..."  
     "Quiet, you twirp, before I cut your access off." Get me my
drink.... immediately!  
     The front door burst open and a woman wearing a white cotton
jacket like I've seen doctors wear came charging in. She had a  
stethoscope in her right hand and she was slapping her left palm
very hard with the business end of the instrument. It didn't look
like it was hurting her, but it sure looked like it should have.
     "Kent!" she yelled. "Give me those damn things now. You were
supposed to turn them in two weeks ago. I've got people just  
begging for them, and you are overdue. The entire feifdom is in an
uproar and it's up to me to set things straight."  
     The fellow with the fasces.... Kent, I suppose he was, froze,
his glass of booze halfway to his lips. Everyone else in the bar
froze as well. Eric looked like he was about to say something, and
I saw his adams apple move a few times, as if he had gulped down
a marshmallow.  
     Kent tossed off his drink with a grimace. He walked slowly 
toward the woman by the door, handed her the fasces, removed the
purple cloak from his shoulders and folded it carefully before  
placing it in her outstretched palm.  
     The woman flared her nostrils and, wordlessly, turned and  
left.  
     Headly broke the silence. "Sic semper tyrannis."  
     "That's so undemocratic. We should organize a protest. Do you
think Lynn would help?" Allison asked of no one in particular.  
     "The lady doth protest too much, methinks," Eric cried out.
     "New York, New York. It's a wonderful town....."  
     I flipped a ten dollar bill on the table and headed for the
door in a hurry.   
     "Stop in again," the bartender called out. "On Friday nights,
Ruby puts on a great karioka."  
     I was halfway out before the name registered on my brain.  
     "Ruby? Ruby who?" I asked.  
     "Why Ruby Begonia. What other Ruby is there? By the way, if
you're around here tomorrow, stop in for lunch. Free sandwiches.
I know you like pastrami. Right?"  
     "Yes, how'd you know?"  
     "It's in the eyes, Mister. That haunted and tortured look. I
can spot a writer every time."   
     I walked to my car, thinking that maybe I would stick around
and pick up a sandwich or two. What the hell, it sure sounded  
better than trying to peddle ginsu knife sets to women more  
interested in watching their TV soap operas.  
     I often wish I had gone back.  
                               END  

